


Bending Towards The Sun

by Malapropian



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Daddy Kink, Incest, M/M, Mistaken Identity, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Parent/Child Incest, lying, meet cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8343976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/pseuds/Malapropian
Summary: After Claudia leaves John for reasons he never knows, he throws himself into work. Twenty years later, he's retired with no idea how to enjoy life. All of that changes when he meets Stiles on the side of the road.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to many people for supporting this garbage fire. You know who you are. I meant to wait until I had more written (I'm still writing chapter 2), but tbh I just wanted to start posting. Because of that rush I'm the only one who's edited. Sorry for any mistakes.
> 
> To head off a few questions: 
> 
> I suspect that this will hit about 6 chapters, but I won't put a chapter count up until I have a better idea. 
> 
> The only point of view you'll have is John's.
> 
> Yes, there's a reason for Stiles to still have his nickname and a completely different last name.
> 
> Also yes, this really is the story of John who unknowingly falls into a romantic relationship with his kid.

Every morning John opens his eyes to the smell of brewing coffee, but the sounds are what rouse him. The hiss and gurgle of their old coffee pot and Claudia cheerfully butchering her favorite songs. Later in the day, it might be something from the Top 40 station or The Smiths if she’s sad, but mornings are for coffee and kisses while _Little Earthquakes_ plays on the stereo.

A better husband would know the moment it began, could track that first downward slide. John should recall when Morrissey’s mournful lamentations supplant the tinkling piano of Tori Amos. 

It’s too late for noticing anything but this: the moment of crisis. The suitcases he passes in the entryway. His footsteps falling loud and strange in the foyer. Leonard Cohen playing on the stereo. Claudia in the kitchen, illuminated by sunlight. Claudia, silent and expressionless, fixing her wine-dark eyes on his face. Claudia at the table with a sheaf of papers and a pen. Claudia folding her hands in front of her, waiting with infinite patience to end his world.

The scene crystallizes in John’s mind. He’ll see it every time he closes his eyes, in his dreams, until he dies. Distantly, John watches Claudia open her red-painted lips, each word a stone dropping into the well of his heart.

“I’m leaving, John. I want a divorce.”

What else can he say when she has decided everything for them? Leonard Cohen’s growl urges him to dance to the end. It fills the empty space left by her declaration, anchoring John to his new reality, lending him the strength to close his eyes and answer.

“What,” his voice cracks, but that doesn’t matter—not yet. “What do you need me to do?”

* * *

California bakes under the summer sun. Drought-stricken and brown, yes. On the verge of falling into the ocean, maybe. On days like today, when the sky is a deep, cloudless blue, and he has nothing to do but drive, John understands why some people call California paradise. It’s not paradise, but it’s all he’s ever known. He wouldn’t trade his life here for any other place. 

Though spending his first two months of semi-forced retirement on the forested roads of Beacon County is becoming pathetic—has been if he’s honest. John slows down for the upcoming speed trap, muttering along when the iPod shuffles to the next song, “Good times for a change….” He sighs and presses skip.

Good times. _Ha._ Retire they’d said. Relax, John. Catch up on hobbies or with family. John hasn’t had family or hobbies for more than twenty years, shortly preceding the decision to throw himself into work then, later, into becoming sheriff. Two decades of nearly killing himself on the job, and what he has to show for it is free time, a lonely house, and a meaningless life. All John can see is an endless march of days, as empty and idyllic as the sky.

He hates it.

_“Haven’t had a dream in a long time.”_

Blue catches his eye as he rolls past. The part of him that will always be a cop catalogs the scene: blue Jeep, CJ-5, and a driver in need of assistance. All familiar enough for him to wince, but the driver standing by the Jeep looks nothing like his ex-wife. In fact, the driver is a slim man with a great ass. John can only guess at the rest of him since the driver is bending straight over to tie his shoes, a fuel can sitting at his feet. 

John slows to a stop and pulls over, tires crunching over gravel. He might not be sworn to uphold the law, but it’s important to be neighborly. He sneaks another glance at the impressively tight jeans molding to an equally impressive rear end before pausing Morrissey and rolling down his window.

The sun blazes down as soon as he leans out. “Hey there. You have everything taken care of or do you need some help?” 

The man glances up, and his eyes widen to cartoonish proportions, his jaw literally drops as he lets out a squawk. Now that he’s closer, John can see the brown eyes, pink lips, and moles. He can also see that this kid is half his age if he’s a day. But none of that justifies the reaction to John’s offer of help. 

John tilts his head in consideration, takes a discreet sniff, but there’s nothing but the strong smell of coffee and gasoline. Puzzled, John examines the kid with a critical gaze. Other than a red face and the beginnings of a healthy sweat, he’s the picture of youth and vitality. The kid’s pale enough that the sunshine shimmers around him in a subtle, but noticeable, golden glow. He reminds John of the religious icons his mother had put up around the house when he was a kid. 

“Are you okay?” John asks. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Still staring, but upright, the kid stammers, “Shit. Sorry. I just…” He closes his eyes and jerks his head sharply. Once. Twice. Then he opens his eyes again, bright brown staring back at John. “Sorry,” he says with a quirk of chapped lips. “I guess I’ve been out in the sun too long. I was seeing things for a second.”

At that admission, John’s low-key suspicion melts into concern. He unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the truck, carefully approaching the kid. “How long have you been broken down here? Do you need to lie down? Water?” 

The dull flush spreads down the kid’s neck as he sways toward John. “No-o. I ran out of gas, but I’m fine now. Had to stop and catch my breath after I went to the gas station back that way.” He points up the road, hand fluttering before returning to perch at the back of his head. It does nothing to hide the fine tremor in his long fingers. He grins at John, white teeth reflecting the June sun. “I should be good to go now. I’m all fueled up.”

“If you were fine, your hands wouldn’t be shaking.” John gentles his tone when the kid jumps. “I’m Sheriff—retired Sheriff—John Stilinski. I’m not going to hurt you, okay?” He hustles back to the truck and grabs the sealed water bottle sitting in the passenger seat, still cold enough to be wet with condensation. 

“Here,” John says, thrusting the bottle out, “you probably need to sit down and drink some water. Especially if you’re new to California.” At his questioning look, John admits, “I noticed your license plate said Minnesota.”

“Oh. That makes sense. I’m Stiles.” Stiles takes the water, twisting off the cap to gulp greedily, Adam’s apple bobbing as he takes long pulls from the bottle. “Thanks, Sheriff.” He winks. “I really owe you one for stopping.”

“Stiles.” John rolls the name around in his mouth, strange but fitting somehow. Heat rises in his face, so John hooks his thumbs in his belt loops. He mutters, “I’m not Sheriff anymore.”

“Aww. You’ll always be Sheriff to me.” Stiles laughs then, loud and full-bodied. “Are you blushing, John?”

The sly tease takes John by surprise, both of them, if he can trust the look on Stiles’ face, but Stiles doesn’t take it back. He juts his chin out, ready to take a knock if it’s coming.

“So,” Stiles begins, eyes everywhere but John’s face. “Like you noticed, I’m new in town. Still getting all moved in, but I…” the pause stretches out uncomfortably long, and Stiles slants him a look up through outrageous lashes. “I’d like to meet you later. For coffee or something. Just to thank you. If that’s okay?”

Standing in the sun, dry wind carrying the promise of green and growing things, John makes a decision. He steps closer, only stopping before he can bump into Stiles. The heat between them is a living thing, humid and heady. John can almost taste the salt when Stiles licks his own lips.

“Yeah. Yes,” John replies. “I’d like that.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles down at Stiles. “I’ll need your number. And a last name.” John lowers his voice conspiratorially, “Unless there’s something you don’t want the former sheriff knowing about you?”

Stiles jumps like he’s touched a livewire. “What? No!” He clears his throat. “I mean, my name is fine. I can give you that.” He bites his lip, chasing an errant flap of skin. “Sorry, you must think that I’m an idiot.”

“I really don’t.”

“Huh, well, joke’s on you.” Stiles nudges John’s arm with his shoulder. “Now that I’ve turned this into a whole thing, you can be disappointed by my name.” He leans against his Jeep and sticks out his hand. “Stiles Zaitsev. Pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Stiles.” They shake hands, a brief exchange of sweat and water, transforming a meaningless greeting into a far more intimate touch. 

On a day like today, it’s easy to be charmed by a brash boy and the way light attaches to him, makes him beautiful. In a daze, John hands over his phone for Stiles to add himself to the contacts list.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Sheriff.” Stiles winks and shoots finger guns at him before sauntering around the front-end of the Jeep. 

John climbs back into his truck. He waits for Stiles to drive off safely, waits for the image of his license plate to shrink in the distance until he can no longer make out 6QGM387. He sits, staring at the road. Eventually John rouses himself. He turns the key and shifts into drive. 

Almost as an afterthought, he starts the iPod again. Morrissey’s somber croon fills the quiet. _“So for once in my life, let me get what I want. Lord knows it would be the first time.”_

For once, John drives home before dark. He eats dinner and solves the crossword. And right before he turns out the light, he sends Stiles a text.

_To Stiles: I know a place with great coffee. Meet me tomorrow?_

He hardly has a chance to wait before his phone lights up and buzzes in rapid succession.

_To John: Sounds awesome!_

_To John: Send me details later._

_To John: Good night :)_

_To Stiles: Good night_

Smiling to himself in the dark, John closes his eyes and hums. Good times for a change, indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I turned around twice, and suddenly it's been over a year. I have a ton of WIPs, so I can't promise to do any better, but! I haven't abandoned this story. It has a very special place in my heart, and I look forward to the end when I can shock and appall you.
> 
> This update is dedicated to Cannibalinc for hurting all three of my feelings with [Dandelion House](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12928593). You're the worst, and I hate everything you stand for.

Everything in John’s closet makes him look like an old man. He has a neverending supply of neatly pressed khakis and blue jeans and plain polo shirts, but nothing seems right for his meeting with Stiles—for his date. John pulls out two plaid button-ups and holds them under his chin. Christ, he looks like his grandpa. Worse, he looks like his own dad. How had that happened without him noticing?

If he calls Melissa or Jordan for date advice, he’ll never hear the end of it. John considers the alternatives, his shoulders slump. He sighs and hangs his shirts back in the closet.

John pulls out his phone and punches in his passcode. His finger hovers over the phone icon in the bottom corner of his screen.

“Courage,” John mutters.

The phone rings twice before connecting, so he doesn’t waste time either.“Hey, Jordan. Do you have a minute?”

● ● ●

John’s head shoots up, and his pulse jumps every time the door jingles. When he sees that it’s not Stiles, he relaxes against the chair back and blows out a deep breath. Of course it’s not Stiles—there’s no reason for him to be here fifteen minutes early, _not like John_.

He lingers over his coffee. Sunlight streams in through the storefront, setting the pastry cases to sparkling, but John only has eyes for the sidewalk.

The bells jingle, again and again. It’s never Stiles.

“Hey there, Sheriff!” Karen smiles down at him. “Would you like me to top you up?”

“Oh, no.” He glances down at the inch of black coffee sloshing around the bottom of his mug. “I’m waiting for someone.”

Karen gives him a conspiratorial look. “I thought so with the way you keep watching the window!” The door bells ring out, another customer arrives. “I’ll be right back with a little something, so don’t you go anywhere.” 

She winks and bustles off.

It’s kind of her to blame it on his nerves and not his outfit. He wipes sweaty palms on his well-worn jeans, by now, the black has faded to a dark grey, and the denim clings to him in a way that Jordan swears is “completely fuckable”. A dark blue button up, from the back of his closet, completes the look. In accordance to Jordan’s advice, he’s left the top button open to show off his chest hair. 

Jordan claims that he looks every bit the sexy older man. Mostly, John feels ridiculous. Give him his dad jeans and polos any day.

Without much hope, the man shifts in his seat to see who’s just walked in, and _oh_. There he is, standing just inside the door, his sharp features oddly softened in this slant of light. The afternoon sun bestows its blessings on the young man, kissing his features with a warm glow. In this light, his brown eyes are tawny gold; it’s like whiskey and smooth enough to drown in.

John has always been partial to brown eyes.

Stiles peers around the cafe, lips parted absently. It shouldn’t be so endearing, and yet. John can’t help but admire the picture he makes with his bright eyes and candy-pink lips, broad shoulders stretching under the seams of his red shirt.

This boy is only half his age and so far out of his league. What’s he doing meeting a retired, former sheriff for coffee when he could have anyone else?

“Hey, Sheriff.”

John nods. “Hey, yourself.” 

His eyes crinkle in a smile, as he takes in the sight of a pretty boy in a tight shirt and skinny jeans. Obviously, he’s not the only one who had stressed over clothes.

Long fingers dance over the back of the chair across the table. “Is this seat free?”

“Of course.” John chuckles. “Unless you want to sit somewhere else?”

“Hmm.” Stiles turns the chair around and drops into it, chin resting on the back rest. He grins at John, something sly and secretive lurking in his face. “I’m sure I could think of _somewhere_... if you let me.”

The bold innuendo catches him flat-footed. It always has. John tugs at his collar, heat rising in his face. He shakes his head, charmed against his will. “You’re a menace.”

“But I could be your menace.” The kid winks at him, and it takes a supreme act of will to keep his blush down.

“Maybe,” John says, “but you’ll have to earn it.”

“Oooh, a challenge is it? Consider it done, daddy-o.” Stiles shoots finger guns at him.

_"You can be the boss, Daddy,” Claudia whispered against his throat._

Escaping the memory, John blinks at Stiles, almost in shock at his brazen attitude—at his powers of perception. 

Just then, Karen returns, loaded tray in hand. “Here you go, boys!” She plunks down a fresh cup of coffee for John, a selection of what appear to be fresh sandwiches, chocolate croissants, and lemon bars. “Now,” she says, turning to Stiles, “what would you like to drink, hon?”

The kid sits up and beams at her. He looks as though he’s never been happier to meet someone. It’s almost enough to make him jealous. 

“Hi, Karen,” he says, reading her name tag. “I’ll just have what John’s having.”

“That’ll be a drip coffee with double milk. You let me know if you’d like anything else.” With that offer, she disappears behind the counter.

Stiles smirks at him. “So does Karen have a crush on the dashing former sheriff or is she matchmaking?”

From the far wall, the jukebox comes to life, and Elvis Costello warbles out, “Oh my baby, baby. I love you more than I can tell…”

A full of cup of coffee appears at Stiles’ elbow before the first verse finishes. John winces as the song plays. He doesn’t dare look at his date.

“So…” he draws out the sound. Stiles quirks an eyebrow at John and blows across the top of his steaming coffee. “Do you think we should tell her that this is a song about someone who can’t bear to let go of their cheating partner?”

_“You said, ‘young man I do believe you’re dying.’”_

They lock eyes and John snickers. The absurdity of the situation is too much for him, and Stiles follows suit, collapsing on his chair back in a fit of giggles. Eventually, they regain their composure.

“She does mean well.” John shrugs.

“You must have been a good sheriff.”

The simple observation, stated with such confidence, fills him with warmth. He’d always tried so hard. He’d thrown himself into the job after the divorce. John had been single and heartbroken with nothing else to fill his time, so he’d given most of his love to the town of Beacon Hills. Any dating that Sheriff Stilinski had done hadn’t been intended to go anywhere serious.

Maybe, he thought, this could be a second opportunity to spend all that love on another person.

He scuffs his toe on the linoleum. “Aw, well.”

“And modest too.” Stiles picks up a croissant and bites into it with relish. “What a catch. I don’t know how you managed to stay single.”

John rubs the back of his neck. “I wasn’t always. Single, I mean. That was a long time ago though.”

Sympathetic brown eyes stare back at him. “And you never? There was no one else?”

“I thought she was the love of my life, and she left. Then there was the job. Sure, I dated around after, but I couldn’t do the job and have a relationship. Maybe she’d been right about that.”

“Is that why she left?” Stiles lays a hand on top of his.

“Hell, I never knew.” A shadow of the familiar grief rises up, but it doesn’t have the same power anymore. “But it could have been a factor. God knows enough of my deputies heard that complaint.”

“You were too good for her,” Stiles states. He’s calm and matter-of-fact. The sky is blue. The sun rises in the east. John Stilinski is too good for his ex-wife.

John clears his throat, touched by the sentiment. In time, he might even believe it, but the past is behind him. He isn’t here to talk about Claudia. He’s here for Stiles: to see if this pretty young thing might want to become a part of John’s future.

“What brings you to Beacon Hills?” he asks, clumsily changing the subject.

“Umm.” Stiles bites his lip and looks into his coffee, a delicate red rises up in his cheeks. “It’s dumb.”

John flips his hand underneath Stiles’ and clasps it loosely, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles. 

“You seem like a smart kid to me.”

He licks his lips, a flash of pink on pink, and John wants to follow the curve of those sweet lips with his own tongue. He wants to give chase, sucking Stiles’ tongue into his own mouth.

If he kisses Stiles now, it would taste like coffee and chocolate, sunshine and summer. If he takes Stiles home, will the boy bend to him? Offer up his sweetness to John? 

He can’t wait to find out.

“When my mom was pregnant, she left my dad. He never even knew. She died when I was a kid, but I thought.” Stiles’ shoulders jerk in an almost shrug. His fingers tense in John’s. “I turned twenty-two and got my trust. I finished my bachelor’s, and I don’t _need_ to work, so…” he trails off.

“So you decided to come looking for him,” John finishes.

“Yeah. This is the last place she knew about him living.”

Is this his way in? He doesn’t have the same resources as the former sheriff, but John still has department connections. He can help if Stiles lets him.

“I’d be happy to help in any way I can. It wouldn’t exactly be through official channels, but I still have some pull.”

“You’d do that for me?” Stiles’ eyes brighten. “You’re… you’re a good guy, John. You don’t even know me.”

“Hey now. None of that,” John scolds. “I like you, Stiles. I want to get to know you. I know I’m an old man, but I’d like to see you again.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe on a real date next time.”

At the word “date”, the kid’s eyes widen to comical proportions, or it would be comical if only he didn’t look so poleaxed at the thought of dating a retiree.

Damn it, he tells himself. Wrong again, John.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “It was my mistake. I should have known.”

“No!” Stiles protests, gripping John’s hand when he tries to slide it away. “No. I just… I didn’t realize that you were interested in that.” His brow furrows. “Do you—you really wanted to date me?”

He sounds shocked at idea that anyone would want to date him.

“Yeah, Stiles.” John drags his eyes over Stiles, from head to toes and back again. He ends his perusal at the pretty pink mouth that’s fascinated him from the start. There’s something so familiar and dear about the shape, something that makes him want to explore until he knows exactly what it is. “I really want to date you.”

“Oh.” His eyes shut for a few seconds, as though he’s replaying everything about their meeting by the road and then here, at the diner. “I had no idea,” he breathes. 

He sounds giddy, and it’s enough to give John hope that this entire thing isn’t a mistake.

“Well now you know.” John braces for rejection, but the way that Stiles clings to his hand tells him a different story.

“What about the offer to help find my dad? Is that contingent on this whole dating thing?” 

There’s a tension in the kid’s voice that warns John to tread carefully. Someone, somewhere has hurt this boy tremendously. It fills him with a protective fury that’s far too much for someone he’s just met, but he can’t help it. There’s just something about this kid. He wants to wrap him up and keep him safe. To tease him and poke gentle fun. To see him spread out in bed, naked and gasping on John’s dick.

“Aw, kid. Stiles. Of course, I’ll help you either way. You deserve to find your dad.”

His answering smile is beautiful, bright and warm as a desert sunrise. 

“I’d like that, John. I guess you’ll have to stop calling me kid.” Suddenly, Stiles flails, his free hand coming up to cover his face. “I called you daddy-o. Oh my god, I’m so embarrassed. Like, what did you even think?

“Hey,” he soothes. “It’s okay.” John leans over the table and lifts Stiles hand to his lips. He presses a short kiss to his knuckles and smirks, holding Stiles’ gaze. “I liked it,” he says, voice dipping into a lower register.

“Oh. _Oh!_ ” Stiles flushes. “Well then. Aren’t we a match?”

It’s funny, but Stiles is right about them being a match. He’s looking for his long-lost dad, and John’s looking for someone to take care of. He’s missed having someone sweet and willing to call him daddy.

They’re like two puzzle pieces, and John’s looking forward to seeing how else they fit.

● ● ●

When John finds out that Stiles had walked to the diner, there’s nothing else to do but drop him off at his hotel.

He shoots Stiles a disapproving look as they pull into the parking lot for The Valley Inn. The run-down property is a relic from the time when Beacon Hills had been a popular stop between national parks. Now, the faded pink of the lobby and the exterior-corridors serve as a sad reminder of better days.

“Stiles. You should be in a newer place. Somewhere a little more secure.”

The kid lifts one dark eyebrow at him. “Are you worried, daddy?” he teases.

Already a brat, John thinks fondly. “I’m serious, Stiles. You said you have a trust, so you shouldn’t need to stay here. If you really can’t afford it, then I’d be happy to help. Just…” The former sheriff glances around the mostly empty lot, casually taking note of the other vehicles. “I’d feel better if you were somewhere safer.”

Stiles face softens at his obvious, sincere concern. “The rooms are shockingly clean. Is it really that shady here?”

“It doesn’t have the best reputation.”

Stiles nods. “Okay. I’ll start looking for a long-term solution. Thanks, John.”

“I know we just met, and it’s crazy, but I care about you. I’d hate to have something happen to you.” John reaches over and squeezes the slender nape of his neck. “Let me walk you to your door.”

He tips his head back and laughs, backlit by the setting sun. “Ooh, what a gentleman.”

“Brat.” After a last, gentle squeeze, John lets go and unbuckles his seatbelt.

Together they cross the parking lot, and his rusty cop senses tingle at every twitch of blinds. By his count, the occupied rooms far outnumber the cars. If Stiles isn’t out here in a week, then he’s dragging the kid to his own house to stay. No ifs, ands, or buts. 

“I guess this is good night,” he says as they stand outside of Stiles’ locked door.

“Yeah.” Stiles stares back at him, like he’s not sure of what comes next.

John hums under his breath. If Stiles is unsure, then it’s his move. He leans in, close enough to barely press Stiles against the door. At this distance, he can almost see the erratic jump of a pulse in the hollow of Stiles’ throat, and John brings his hand up to cradle the kid’s sharp jaw. 

“It’s too soon to kiss you isn’t it?” he asks with regret, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers back. His eyes are huge in his face, pupils blown with desire.

“I want to take my time,” he continues as though Stiles hasn’t spoken. “I want to get to know every bit of you.”

“I—I feel the same way.”

“Good night, sweetheart. Lock the door behind you.”

“I will. Good night… daddy.” His blush is bright, even in the fading light. 

John retreats; he watches Stiles fumble with his keys and slip inside without another word or glance. With a bounce in his step, he returns to his truck, whistling to himself.

_I'm going to say it again 'til I instill it._

_I know I'm going to feel this way until you kill it._

_I want you._

_I want you._

_I want you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look. This is incest. John and Stiles are father and son. They're going to wind up touching dicks. If you hate that fact, then I don't know what the fuck you're doing here.
> 
> Listen to the recurring Elvis Costello song, [I Want You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vah8CeqnlP8).
> 
> I hope the rest of you are enjoying my exploration of Ridiculously Dramatic gay incest. Thanks so much for sticking with this even though it's been so long. You're all great.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought. :)


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